


PB&J

by penlex



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Character Study, Gap Filler, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation, Racist Language, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's second stay in juvenile hall is a little more eventful than the first. Distance makes the heart grow, if not always fonder, then definitely more needy. And also horny. And kind of pissed off. Or maybe that's just Mickey all the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PB&J

**Author's Note:**

> Mickey has a few conflicting lines that have always jumped out at me, the first being when he tells Ian he got out early for "overcrowding or some shit" but then tells the kid he sold coke to the he got out for good behavior. Another is when he tells Ian he missed him because he "had to do all the fucking in juvie" versus when he tells Ian when Ian is in the boys' home that it's a "wise choice" not to fuck anybody and then "even if you get propositioned it's probably just a set up." So this fic is an illustration of which things are the truth.
> 
> There's a lot of racist language in here so brace yourself for that. Also some homophobic language and some brief internalized homophobia. A couple sexist terms. Basically canon-typical nastiness.
> 
> The graphic violence warning is for a fight between Mickey and two gay bashers. Nobody is seriously injured, and Mickey wins, but there is some disturbing imagery. The underage warning is for Mickey having a little fun by himself. I'm going with he's seventeen here. Also there's a little bit of non-consensual voyeurism by one of Mickey's cellmates, but that part's not graphic, and it's up to you to decide how long you think the guy was watching.
> 
> Also, for the sake of my wonderfully dramatic writing here, we're pretending that Mickey doesn't say "liking what I like don't make me a bitch" until after getting out of juvie the second time. Bear with me.

The first go ‘round in juvie was a certain kind of way. Being fresh meat usually made you a target, from what Mickey had heard from his brothers and from what he saw while he was in there, but taking a bullet had given him a kind of prestige inside. Nothing too overt, nobody groveled at his feet or any shit like that, but nobody gave him much trouble either. He just got to do his time, trade cigarettes for fucking Hostess snacks, whatever.

The second time, Mickey’s ‘what’d you do’ story is good for a quick little laugh around the joint, but isn’t special enough for it to stick in anybody’s mind as something cool or tough or whatever getting shot was supposed to be. Luckily, Mickey still isn’t demoted all the way down to fresh meat, so compared to some others he has it pretty easy. He just sits with some of the guys whose faces he remembers from last time to eat his mystery mush every day, and tries his best not to think about how what he did isn’t really why he’s in here.

Sure, Mickey had missed Gallagher a little the first time he got put away, but it wasn’t too bad. He had bigger fish to fry at the time, and Ian visited anyway. Not too often, of course. That would be suspicious, and anyway Ian had his own fish back home. It had been like a minor craving kind of thing – he’d gotten used to having Gallagher around the same way you get used to having your peanutbutter sandwich with jelly on it. You wish the jelly was there when you gotta go without, but it’s not like you really need it or anything. It’s just kinda nice. Adds a little extra.

Now, though, missing Ian is more like having an empty belly. The second the not-so-pearly gates lock Mickey in he wants right back out again. He doesn’t know what the fuck he expects himself to be able to do out there, but that’s what he wants. He hopes that whole ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ thing is bullshit, because he’s pretty sure he’s had his fill of fucking fondness for the next seven or eight years.

Mickey’s certain for the first three weeks that his desire to get out is his biggest weakness. On the cusp of wakefulness every morning, Mickey’s unfiltered thoughts remind him that he can shorten his sentence if he tries. But acting like a pussy in order to enable himself to participate in yet further pussihood is just not on the cards, so just to make sure he’s not slipping up and sending out a ‘hey come beat me up because I’m a homesick baby’ beacon Mickey is as mouthy as possible at all waking moments.

The fourth week, a new guy comes in. Well, new to Mickey, but clearly not new around. He sits at Mickey’s table and everybody knows him. They greet him by name, pat him on the back, shuffle around so that he gets a certain seat. Mickey watches carefully, but nobody seems scared or even intimidated, just genuinely friendly. It’s weird, but not unheard of. This is a guy who rules with love.

The usual ‘what’d you do’s and ‘how long ya in for’s are passed around. Mickey shares his story again, and New Guy laughs and tells him plainly, “I like it.” He reaches over to shake Mickey’s hand and introduces himself. “Hobbs. Nice ink.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says unenthusiastically. “Milkovich.” Hobbs raises his eyebrows at that and looks Mickey over appraisingly, likely seeing how Mickey compares to the rest – a.k.a. small as fuck, but a little sharper, a little more dangerous (excepting Terry of course, on that last bit).

The conversation moves more dynamically with Hobbs at the table, not to mention there’s more of it. Hobbs himself is not a real big talker, but he’s the kind of charismatic that Mickey’s only seen in talk show hosts or TV shrinks (probably real shrinks have it too, but Mickey’s never seen one of those).

During a light lull, Giuliani asks Hobbs in his obnoxious nasally voice from Mickey’s left, “That hurt or somethin’?” Hobbs has been rubbing at a scabbed over cut on his hand for the last couple minutes, and at Giuliani’s gesture he looks down at it with a look on his face that Mickey’s seen on Ian’s about fifty times (that’s fifty times too many).

“My girl stabbed me with a fuckin’ fork,” Hobbs says proudly. The guys all laugh.

“Your girl still Grace?” Jacobs asks, at Hobbs’s right hand. Jacobs is the only non-white kid at their table. He’s like fourteen or some shit and has a little bird footprint tattooed under his eye. He gives off the impression of some fifty-two year old peyote-smoking, ghost story-telling, better-stay-out-of-the-woods-kids grandpa, and nobody really knows what to make of him so he sits wherever he fucking wants (some of the Mexicans even go out of their way to not get on his bad side because they’re freaked about getting cursed. They’re a bunch of spic morons, but that’s their business). Jacobs says he has the divine wisdom of his people, and that he can do that fancy smoke shit that the old dude did in Pocahontas. Mickey’s pretty sure most of the time he’s just making fun of their racist asses, which is fair enough.

“Yeah,” Hobbs answers Jacobs, sounding wistful now.

“How long you been fuckin’ her now?” Ackermann wonders. His deep voice carries easily from the far end of the table (he has to sit in the isle because he’s fucking gigantic, even bigger than Tony, and hardly any of it’s fat, just beef. He could probably toss Arnold Schwarzenegger over his left shoulder for good luck, but he’s in here for stealing the dogs off of owners who put them in fights).

“Like a year, man, shit,” Hobbs shares, widening his eyes and shaking his head at everybody. They all whistle, shake their heads back, curse. “I’m thinkin’ Imma try to get out of here early, you know? That good behavior shit can be all lie, right?” The cursing and head shaking around the table intensifies and Hobbs laughs light-heartedly. Then, noticing Mickey’s awkward stillness, Hobbs asks, “Alright, Milkovich?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, and then impulsively adds, “Just kinda in the same boat.” Hobbs laughs again, easy as a piece of fucking cake, and gleefully advises, “Good luck, man. Ain’t no paddles around here.”

Mickey does his best to ignore him, takes a too-casual gulp of his stale-tasting water, but he feels his resolve to play it bad begin to crumple like a grumbling stomach.

-

By the time the ten week mark is approaching, Mickey’s body’s need to get fucked has overtaken his hunger for Ian, at least in urgency. They don’t call it thirst for nothing, apparently. Mickey jerks off of course, but you can’t exactly go sticking your fingers up your ass when you’re sharing a tiny room with three other fucking delinquents – one that doesn’t even have a real door at that. And Mickey’s never been into having a potential audience anyway. But time alone with just one hand is shaping up to be less than satisfying.

In the meantime, Mickey’s been being good. He’s doing the jobs they give him with as much efficiency as he can pull off, and he’s also managed to shut the fuck up. Hopefully Hobbs is right and getting out early on good behavior isn’t a total myth, or Mickey will probably spit fire because this shit sucks (although on the other hand it maybe isn’t so bad to take a breather and go the passive route. Still, hopefully it’s only for another month or two or Mickey’ll get fucking bored of it and go starting fights and shit).

At eleven weeks, Mickey’s assigned counselor brings him into her office, sits him down on the other side of her regal-for-juvie-state-pen desk, and gives him and uncomfortably sunny smile.

“They’ve decided to shave off two months of your sentence!” she tells him. It takes a lot not to smile back, but Mickey’s been doing this for a while now so he manages. The look in her eyes says that she got the message anyway, but Mickey’d put money on it that shit like that is what keeps her from blowing her brains out when she gets home from work every day, so he’ll let it slide. For now. She talks for a while about what Mickey’s been doing right and lets him know that if he’s lucky they might consider taking off two more. She also says she’s proud of him and starts going on about “rehabilitation” excitedly. It’s bull and he knows it, but he nods along in hopes that she’ll talk him up to whoever’s holding the gavel in here. She shows him out of her office thinking he’s the Second fucking Coming.

Mickey’s still feeling his success at lights out, and the high makes him reckless and arrogant – and horny. He rolls over onto his back and glances cursorily around the cell to check if his mates are asleep, and then slips one hand between his legs to press promisingly on his hardening cock and stuffs three fingers of the other into his mouth. His issued boxers are too big (he never considered complaining because they feel like that pair that Ian forgot in his bed that he’s been pretending not to have realized aren’t his) so it’s easy to yank them down to the knee one-handed.

Mickey usually prefers to be on his front to do this because it’s easier to hit on the best angle and because he can get better leverage that way, but on his back like this is safer – at a glance it’ll be hard to tell there’s anything more than the jerking going on. So when his fingers are sufficiently wet, he just lets his legs splay open as much as they can with the elastic of his shorts constricting them.

He starts it out slow, a little bit because it’s been a while, a little bit more because he just fucking wants to. He just pets wetly at his neglected hole while he slides his open palm around on the slick head of his dick, working himself up to a nice heat before he finally starts pushing in, middle finger first, steadily all the way up past the U. It don’t take long from there.

Mickey has kind of a love/hate relationship with finger-banging himself. He loves it for reasons that obviously do not need a fucking explanation. He hates it because it feels so good it’s difficult to keep quiet and since both his hands are busy he’s usually forced to take in a big mouthful of fabric and turn “pillow biter” into a literal statement, which ain’t a very nice thing to think about when he wakes up with his own drool all over his face. Most of the time he just goes at it again, though, to remind himself why he doesn’t give a shit.

Now, he’s not facing his pillow though (and likely would think twice about putting it in his mouth besides), so Mickey digs his teeth into his bottom lip instead. He gives himself a firm tug as he works in his third finger. The sensation combo is a knockout move Mickey was very fortunate to figure out in his exploratory years, and he doesn’t manage to hold back his hiss of, “F- _uh_ -ck.” He doesn’t bother trying not to cant his hips up, feet planted, and roll them into his feeble thrusts to give them more power. He has to stop that when the bed starts creaking though, and flops back down and just strains his wrist instead, fuck it. Mickey holds his breath when his toes start curling to make sure he doesn’t really moan, and finishes with a couple quiet, breathy grunts and a hot splash onto his belly. He has a vague moment of mostly apathetic realization that he has nothing to clean up with, before he thoughtlessly gives in to an old curiosity and wipes the come off his stomach with his fingers and, before he can question himself and change his mind, sticks them in his mouth.

It’s pretty terrible, but Mickey’s tasted worse. Besides, it makes him think about what it would be like to have Ian come in his mouth, and that makes Mickey want more despite the lingering bitterness. Mickey’s heart rate, which has begun to slow, picks up again as he closes his eyes and lets his tongue sweep back and forth across his swollen lip and imagines what the head of a penis would feel like there instead. But those thoughts vanish and his heart is racing for a different reason when the vandal in the bed across sniffs and rolls over to face the wall.

Mickey counts to sixty before he lets himself believe the guy is asleep, was asleep the whole time, and breathes easy again.

-

Mickey’s mood is still pretty good in the morning, and he walks with a skip in his step that only has a little to do – directly, anyway – with the ever so slight tingly soreness in his ass (going at it without some legit lube will do that). He even fist-bumps Hobbs on his way into the grub line, and when Hobbs shoots him a wink before turning towards their table with his tray Mickey’s reasonably sure that he got some off his sentence too (he’s also reasonably sure that Hobbs has pretty eyes and that he’d look good as a ginger, but that’s fucking irrelevant).

Mickey’s high spirits last through the whole week, all the way to Friday (T.G.I. Pizza Day). It’s rec time after lunch and Mickey’s dithering over whether he wants to go to the library (he’s let Ian rub off on him too much, _ha_ ) or outside to see if there are any benches left to work out on, standing like a dumbass in one of the empty hallways in between the two, squishing his lips from one side of his face to the other in thought. He startles internally when a skinny but scrappy-looking black kid approaches him from the side.

“Hey,” says the kid. Mickey doesn’t respond verbally, only raises his eyebrows in an impatient, silent ‘can I fucking help you’. “Hey, you wanna fuck?”

“Fuck no!” Mickey yelps, startled again by the unexpectedness of the request, not to mention a little defensive. “What the fucking fuck? The fuck is wrong with you?” The kid throws up his hands and takes a step back, placating.

“Hey, hey, man, chill, okay, alright, I was just asking, jeez.”

“Fucking Christ,” Mickey snaps back at him. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket. He’s not stupid enough to try to smoke it inside, but he needs something to do with his hands and it’s the only thing around that can be fiddled with. The kid is still hanging around, and Mickey looks him over out of the corner of his eye. He sticks the filter of the cigarette in his mouth and mutters around it, “You really that fucking desperate?” The kid just shrugs his scrappy shoulders and says, nonchalant as you fucking please, “Naw, man. I’m into it.”

“You’re fucking what?” Mickey demands, his eyes snapping onto the kid head-on, incredulously (and curiously), his cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.

“I’m into it,” the kid repeats easily. He even meets Mickey’s eyes. There’s a tense silence before Mickey takes the cigarette from his mouth and nervously rubs his thumb where it had been resting.

“You’re serious?” he asks, much quieter than he has been speaking until now. The kid only reprises the shrug, and then after another short silence, he wonders again, “You wanna fuck?” Mickey hesitates before he answers this time, too long for a no to save him anymore. It’s obvious that Mickey’s considering, and he is tempted, but he hasn’t said yes yet either. He’s confused at himself because he’s usually a black and white kind of guy, but for all that he really, really wants to get laid, he feels guilty as hell for thinking about doing it with someone other than Ian (which is fucking stupid of course, Mickey said they were done, but here he is – apparently not done at all). Impatiently, as if to sweeten the deal the kid adds, “Got lube in my cell.” Mickey tucks his cigarette back into his pocket and gives the kid half of a grin.

“Don’t need it,” he tells the kid. He probably sounds cocky, but he kinda means to. It’s something Mickey’s a little proud of – that he can relax into it so that just a lot of spit can sometimes be enough. He doesn’t know if that’s something that makes him a better fuck in actuality, but it makes him feel like he is so when he gets the chance to talk it up he does.

“Right here then,” the kid amends simply, and grins with a glint in his eye that lets Mickey know that this whole easy-going thing he’s got going for him is about to give way to something a lot sharper and maybe a little mean. That’s okay though, Mickey can get behind a mean guy every now and then. Well… he can get in front of him, that is. Mean Guy pushes at one of Mickey’s shoulders and Mickey goes with that flow and becomes the easy one now, flattening his palms on the nearest wall and letting Mean Guy slide long fingers into the hair at the back of his head. The fingers close into a fist, pulling hard on Mickey’s hair and Mickey lets out a quiet groan.

“You wanna be my little bitch?” Mean Guy growls hotly into Mickey’s ear, and Mickey has the chance to think ‘ _fuckin’ **please** don’t let him be a talker_ ’ before the fist in his hair yanks back roughly so that Mean Guy can slam Mickey’s face hard into the wall.

Mickey curses, out loud but at himself. He can’t fucking believe he could have been this fucking stupid.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” comes a new voice, accompanied by a sharp bark of laughter. “Heard from a little birdie that you like to eat your own come. That true, man? That’s pretty fucked up.”

“Ho-ly _shit_ ,” says Mean Guy turned Homophobe #1, still with a strong and painful grip on Mickey’s hair. “You are disgusting, ain’t you, you little faggot? Ain’t you disgusting, faggot, huh? Say you disgusting, faggot.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jesus,” says Mickey, and throws his elbow back as hard as he can into the guy’s nose. The hand leaves his hair, but he gets a hard kick in the back of the knee to replace it, hits his head on the wall again on the way down. Homophobe #2 has long as fuck legs and is at Mickey’s side in a second to kick him there too. Mickey can feel the bruises beginning to build, but gets it together less than slowly and grabs the ankle attached to the next foot that flies at him and twists it like it’s a neck he’s trying to break. Homophobe #1 shrieks and goes down, swinging his other foot at Mickey’s head on his way. He gets a knee smashed against the wall with all of Mickey’s weight for his efforts. He ducks out with a whimper at that, just pulls himself backwards and lays on the ground.

Homophobe #2, on the other hand, is just getting started, it seems like. He pulls Mickey up by his hair – what is it with the fucking hair?! – and Mickey gets to get a look at his face. He’s a brutish, ugly motherfucker, the kind of stringy-haired, pasty, dead-looking Aryan that only meth-heads can really be, with a badly done Swastika tatt peeking out from the dirty collar of his shirt. Mickey laughs even as a fist compresses his solar plexus. Good to fucking know that his being a disgusting faggot can bring people together.

Aryan Dickhead gets in a few more pretty solid hits, couple against Mickey’s shoulders but most on his forearms when he manages to block them from getting him in the belly, one above Mickey’s brow that he can feel start to bleed immediately. Then Mickey gets fed the fuck up and just shoots a fist straight forward into the guy’s crotch. He wobbles backward with a strangled groan, but stands upright and charges Mickey not a second later. Mickey is flattened against the wall, the back of his head now also having the pleasure to make its acquaintance, black spots popping in front of his eyes momentarily. He figures fuck it at this point, and fucking head-butts the asshole. The wet crunch of his nose breaking against Mickey’s skull, and the hot smear of his blood on Mickey’s forehead, is nothing short of beautiful. As the guy falls back again, Mickey plants a foot in his gut and sends him to the ground.

Mickey gets down on one knee next to the guy’s face, curls his fist and shows his ink, then rubs it into the guy’s nose, the curve of his U pressed right where the cartilage has separated from the bone. The guy howls for a second but then quiets, like he thinks he can still act like some kind of tough guy after getting fucking served by a candy ass who’s like a third of his size. Mickey smiles patronizingly at him and his shiny tears. Some of Mickey’s blood drips into his eye and that is both really gross and also some serious karmic justice. Mickey gets a feral pleasure watching him try to blink it out.

“Even if I wanted to be somebody’s bitch,” Mickey tells him in the trademark Milkovich Means Business Voice. “Ain’t nobody around who could make me one.”

“Thought you fuckers were born that way,” the asshole spits, so Mickey pulls his fist back and is about to bring it down nice and hard when the rough hands of a guard grab him under the armpits and lift him away. He puts up a little fight but knows better than to try throwing any punches. As two guards drag him away and another one keeps his assaulter-turned-victim down on the floor, Mickey kind of wants to shout at him that the hand that was just on his face happened to be up Mickey’s ass last night, but he can’t manage to spit it the fuck out in front of the new arrivals. Hopefully the Nazi bastard will think of it himself.

-

Mickey’s counselor stares at him over her steepled fingers, his file open in front of her. Mickey’s been patched up, but he’s got two black eyes and a tender nose, a split lip, a cut across one side of his forehead, a bruise behind his knee, one above his hip, and more from his shoulders to his wrists. Every time he squeezes his fists too tight his knuckles split a little. He hasn’t stopped opening and closing his hands since he got out of the infirmary – that, or grinning like a Cheshire cat who caught himself a sweet rat. He attempts to tone it down for her in the hopes of getting a lighter punishment, but he’s not sure how successful he is. Probably not very.

“Mr. Milkovich,” she sighs, sadly. “You were doing so well. What happened?” Mickey shrugs, can feel his grin coming back despite himself.

“Somebody asks for a beat down, a beat down’s what they get,” he tells her, and then tacks on, just to be a fucking shit because there’s no doubt he’s screwed now so he might as well go for broke, “ _Ma’am_.” Her mouth thins a little, but then she just shakes her head, shuffles his papers a little bit.

“Mr. Milkovich,” she says again, and this time with what’s supposed to be authority. She sounds like a teacher or a mom, and Mickey just doesn’t put much stock in those kinds of rule-makers. His loyalty and/or compliance is earned through fear or money (or disturbingly strong infatuation, which may or may not be something else much shorter. Regardless, not respect). She describes to Mickey the damage he did to his foes and his grin widens when he hears it’s considerable, proud. But the thrill of his undeniable victory fades almost like it was never there when she tells him about added time. So they’re taking away his early release date, fine. He’ll deal with it. But then she says “six months beyond your original sentence” and Mickey’s ears start ringing. He doesn’t hear anything else she says until she gets to “– know you said they started it, but if you won’t tell us why we can’t –”

“Because I’m a fag.” The words are out of Mickey’s mouth before he has any knowledge of them existing, and he doesn’t even realize what he’s said until he looks at the counselor’s face and sees that her eyes are so wide in her shock that they almost look round. When he finally catches up to what he’s done, Mickey feels like he’s been set on fire – the terror and the defensive fury are like hot oil all over his body and in his mouth and he curses her with every relevant slur he can think of, starting with bitch and ending with zipperhead.

Her only response when he’s done is, “Well.” She closes his file with the slap of crisp manila and points a finger tipped with a perfectly done nail at her door without looking at him. The nail is just a shade pointy and painted dark and kind of reminds Mickey of his sister. He feels a little guilty, but mostly just scared. He gets up and flees like a beaten dog.

-

When Mickey sees Homophobic Agent Double-Oh Tattle-Tale in the cafeteria he goes over and lets a nice wad of spit make its way, slow and dramatic and fucking nasty, from his mouth onto the douchebag’s boloney and cheese sandwich.

-

Mickey’s counselor brings him into her office again three days later. She brusquely shoves some little halfling brochures into his hands.

“Take these quick courses and you can earn back your good behavior privileges, as long as there’s no more fights,” she instructs. “I character referenced for you.” Mickey stares at her, waits for her to laugh and say ‘Just kidding! You’re fucked and I’ll be seeing you right here in revenge meetings every week for the next year’. But she doesn’t, just meets his unsure eyes with hardened ones of her own.

“I literally shat on everything that you are,” Mickey reminds her, completely flabbergasted.

“Yes,” she confirms. “But you shat on yourself a little bit too, didn’t you?” He gives her a look full of incredulousness and a little disgust. Like that’s an excuse?! But the corner of her mouth ticks up just a touch and she adds, “Mr. Milkovich, it’s my job to deal with fucked up little shitstains like yourself. The establishment wants me to rehabilitate all you assholes within the confines of a system that is not made for rehabilitation. At least with you, I know what your fucking problem is.”

Mickey feels sick to his stomach at the casual reminder that she knows, but all he says this time is, “Fair enough.” He stands and crumples the brochures into his pocket, heads for the door.

“Mr. Milkovich,” the counselor calls before he makes it out. He glances back at her over his shoulder to see that she’s writing heavily in the margins of somebody’s file. He hopes it’s not his. “Liking what you like doesn’t make you a bitch.” And with that life lesson delivered she gives him a Meryl Streep wave and he is dismissed.

He takes the fucking brochures to the library and signs up for all of the quick courses they’re requiring of him, plus a few more just for good measure.

-

The courses pass over four weeks. Mickey probably shouldn’t have taken them all at once. He doesn’t retain much, but he manages to pass all of them so whatever. Plus, he’s in a real fucking hurry to get out of here at this point. There’s probably less fucking gay drama on the outside by now.

His counselor takes him into her office again and tells him that the completion of the courses earned him back his two months off, and that the “initiative” to take extras made him look really good. She says that if he keeps up the good behavior from before the fight and doesn’t have any more “altercations” then he might even be able to get a few more. She suggests taking another course just to really bring it home.

Mickey picks a thing on Shakespeare, because it makes him think of Ian.

-

He ends up a lucky little bastard with four months shaved off his sentence, and he gets out only a little over a month after his “altercation”. He even gets out before Hobbs, even though Hobbs hasn’t laid a hand on anybody since Mickey met him. Mickey gets to put on his own god damn clothes again in the middle of the afternoon on some random fucking Tuesday, takes a deep, rejuvenating breath of polluted Chicagoan air as he’s let back out of the not-so-pearly gates, and exits that hellhole stage fucking left.

Nobody’s waiting for him, but that makes easy sense because the only person who would meet him would be Mandy (and Ian, but probably not Ian this time) and she’s in school. Or, actually, Mickey realizes as he checks the time on his phone (no messages or missed calls), she’s just getting out. Ian’s got that ROTC shit on Tuesdays, so he’ll still be on campus for another couple hours. Mickey didn’t realize he knew that, but it comes in handy now, because Mickey’s still hungry. He’s got a real craving for some fucking PB&J, emphasis on the J.

**Author's Note:**

> look me up on [tumblr](http://fortheglare.com/) for stale meta n fresh memes


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